Riven - Jerry B. Jenkins [160]
As he read, he learned of all the services offered and the procedures required to take advantage of them. He was stunned to see that he would have no electricity or reading material or exercise his first ninety days. It wasn’t that he thought he was entitled to any privileges or even common necessities, but this was going to do nothing but damage to his state of mind.
Needless to say, no one cared about his comfort, including Brady. But when he allowed himself to consider merely existing until the state put him out of his misery, he knew it would require at least a few things to keep him sane. How ironic that they watched him constantly to be sure he didn’t kill himself before they had the chance to do it.
One brochure, reserved for only the death row inmates, told him his method of execution was his choice: lethal injection (described as the most humane and the choice of 95 percent of the condemned), gas chamber, electric chair, and hanging.
Well, he didn’t have to decide yet, but Brady was almost certain he would choose the first. He knew himself, knew that at his core he was a coward, that he was not really likely to kill himself and would want to go in the least painful way possible.
He wasn’t ever again going to embody the courage he’d had when he thought that sawed-off still had a live shell in it.
Brady found one more pamphlet, this one outlining how to get counseling, medical care, a chaplain’s visit, books or magazines, or a meeting with a lawyer.
Chaplain. The guy with the Bible had to be the chaplain. And one had to fill out a form and wait for a decision to get him to so much as visit your cell. Like that would happen.
Brady shook his head as he read the fine print. None of the above were available to the inmate during his first ninety days except in the case of medical or legal emergency.
It was going to be one long night and an even longer first three months.
56
Adamsville
Remission.
Such a technical, medical word, and yet how sweet it sounded to Thomas Carey.
For the first time in months, Grace was walking without help, getting in and out of bed on her own, able to get to the bathroom and even shower by herself.
It was temporary, Thomas knew. Everyone knew. Even the volunteer caregivers from Village Church who were now getting a few days off from the normal rotation. They still checked in on Grace when Thomas was at work, and she was careful not to overdo things. But it thrilled him to see her sitting in the living room when he got home from work each day.
She read. She sewed. She watched TV and DVDs. While they agreed she should not undertake baking or big meal-preparation chores, Grace enjoyed fixing herself snacks and often had something ready when Thomas arrived.
She had even taken to wearing a little makeup, and seeing her in anything but nightclothes during the day made life seem normal again. Once Thomas splurged and paid to have a hairdresser make a house call. The next day he drove Grace to church, where she sat weeping through the entire service.
“It was like heaven,” she said.
The problem was, while Grace’s leukemia was in remission, Thomas’s spiritual life was in depression. He did everything he could to put a happy face on things, and there was no question he was warmed and encouraged by her rally—short-lived as the doctor warned it would be—but after nearly four decades of marriage, there was no hiding things from Grace.
She talked with him, counseled him, encouraged him, prayed for him, sang to him. “I’m no Pollyanna, Thomas,” she said one day. “Frankly, I wish our lives and Ravinia had turned out differently. But I still believe we were called to serve and that we should do that and leave the rest to God. If our reward comes only in heaven and not here, so be it.”
He knew she was right. Thomas